The Dollhouse
by CharCorvin
Summary: It watched and waited. DrHr


(A/N) This story came to me while I was setting up dollhouses at work. Ridiculous I know, but I'm really proud of it. Enjoy!

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Draco found the dollhouse when he was eleven. His parents had dragged him to some high-class wizard's silent auction. Draco suspected most of the items on display were full of dark magic, therefore of no interest to him. Draco Malfoy was not an evil child. He was innocent, well, at the age of eleven he was. He eyed it with curiosity.

It was a majestic replica of a mansion, though not his. If it had looked like the home he grew up in, it would have held no appeal. He didn't like his house. It was too big, for one thing. It took him ages to find his parents in it. When he would complain about this his mother would assure him that in a few years it wouldn't seem so big. He did like the grounds; he'd decided when he was five. There was a river about a kilometer behind the house, which took a fair amount of cunning to get to (involving climbing through a dilapidated fence). He could fly as much as he wanted, given that he didn't get too near the Muggle town near by. The Muggles as well held no interest for young Draco, not that his father would let them. Lucius had assured his son numerous times that Muggles were to be ignored. And when they made themselves noticed, they were to be put down until they dissolved into the shadows. Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother, spent hours after that telling Draco that Muggles were just humans that were to be treated with respect. When Lucius wasn't around. And so Draco grew up playing on the rolling expanse of ground, instead of in the shelter of the house.

"Not on the turn are you, Draco?" Narcissa crept up behind her son, laughing at him. "It's for girls."

"I don't think it is," Draco stated, sure of himself. He walked around, studying the inside. "It's decorated like an adult would, not a child."

"Aren't you perceptive," Narcissa grinned. "And what would you do with it?"  
"Mother, it's not something you mess with. We are at a _wizard's_ auction, aren't we?"

Narcissa smirked at her smart-mouthed son, "What's your point?"

"I'm not sure yet," and he wasn't. "It's not meant to be messed with."

Narcissa picked up the parchment placed in front of it. "No one's bid yet. Do you want it?"

"Father would kill me if I asked for a dollhouse," Draco was disappointed, but only his mother could tell. He turned on his heel and marched out onto the patio, huffing into a chair.

"Lucius," Narcissa called, instantly he appeared at her side. "I'd like this," she pointed to the dollhouse.

He gave her a suspicious look. "Something for Draco to pass onto his children," she said. "You understand."

That night when Draco entered the library (his favorite place in the house) he found the dollhouse perched atop a table in the middle of the room. Its windows were sparkling; he could smell the wood from which it was made. The door was painted bright red, contrasting nicely with the white of the siding. Draco smiled, silently thanking his mother. He walked around it a few times, content with its placement within his house, and his heart.

And so, Draco went off to his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He'd heard whispers on the train that Harry Potter, who Draco knew to be his age, had chosen Hogwarts to attend. Draco himself had been offered a place at Durmstrang, but he liked the idea of Scotland better than the north. He liked chill, but not freezing cold. Besides, you had to watch out for icebergs and people willing to push you off them.

He sat with his two friends, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe. Draco used the term friends very loosely. He'd been forced to be nice to the two boys, as their fathers were close friends, but he'd felt no attachment to them. Due to his lonely childhood, Draco had never learned _manners_ exactly. So it was that when he spotted Harry Potter upon the staircase, he'd made an utter and complete prat of himself. He'd accidentally insulted the youngest Weasley boy and managed to alienate Potter away from him. Draco didn't have a problem with the Weasley's exactly. His father told them that all the red-haired barbarians were blood traitors. Draco didn't understand this; the Weasley's were, in fact, pureblood, just like Draco was. But since his mother hadn't heard this comment when Draco was seven, he'd never been told any different.

Draco was sorted into Slytherin, the house all his family had been in previously. The Hat, the Sorting Hat that is, had searched him over well. Finally having to choose between Gryffindor for the boy, or Slytherin. Draco was shocked, as he'd never imagined Gryffindor to be an option, but he chose Slytherin anyway. He could only imagine the looks of detest if the youngest Malfoy was a Gryffindor.

Draco's first year at Hogwarts passed in a haze of screw ups and anger. He'd been aggravated by Potter and Weasley so much, that in a desperate attempt to win them over, he'd gotten Potter inducted into the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The youngest player in a century. He'd been bested at every subject by some Hermione Granger. A girl with hair just as pompous as her name. He didn't know until the end of the year, when her parents picked her up at the train station that she was Muggleborn.

So he went back to the manor with a report card full of Outstanding's and a heavy heart. He'd thought Hermione Granger was pretty, until she'd picked Potter and Weasley to be her friends. He couldn't imagine what his father would say to that.

The dollhouse was just as he left it, a little dustier maybe. No one used the library except Draco. He wiped it off the best he could. The windows weren't as clear as he remembered. And the paint had seemed to have flaked off in some spots. He opened the small hook, releasing the back wall and opening the interior of the house to his gaze. _Surely, that wallpaper had been a bit brighter the first time he'd set eyes on it?_ No, that was silly. It was the dying light of the fire playing games on the boy. He locked up the house, gave it a loving pat and retired to his room. The summer of before his second year was spent practicing Quidditch; he was intent on beating Potter.

The dollhouse never regained its old shine.

Thus began his second year. He'd run into the Golden Trio in Flourish and Blotts. While he'd intended to say hello and walk away, he was shocked at the turn of events. Somehow what had actually come out of his mouth was an insult to Ginny Weasley, an insult to Granger and then an outlook on Potter's love life. These facts were overshadowed when Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley got into a brawl.

Luckily, he'd been initiated onto the Slytherin Quidditch team, not by his father's gift, but on his talent. And when this little tidbit had been exploited by one bushy-haired Gryffindor…

"Hermione," he said softly in front of everyone, taking her hand.

No, no he didn't. No matter how many times he played it in his head it never ended like that.

"Filthy little Mudblood," he'd actually spat at her. He didn't know where the word came from, his father obviously. Though Draco had never remembered hearing it before.

Somewhere far away from where Draco Malfoy was now, in a library, a dollhouse gave a soft, almost disappointed sigh, and twisted forward. Its roof sagging.

After that day, Draco didn't care about getting Potter or Weasley's attention. Not even Grangers. And so his shell hardened. He found humor in the Heir of Slytherin, knowing it wasn't Potter. _How could it be?_ Draco Malfoy didn't care anymore. Because the look of hurt in her eyes when he'd called Mu..when he'd called her _that_. He knew he was doomed.

He quietly followed his parents out of the train station and back to the mansion. He left his trunk in the front hall, sure the House Elves would take care of it. He took the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, all the way to the library.

The dollhouse was obviously different now. Its once-white siding had darkened to an ugly grey. The windows were caked with grime and grit. The house looked sad, it looked broken. Draco's brows furrowed in concentration. He turned his back on the house, and then whispered over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

He never turned around see, but he heard the wood creak as if sniffing the air hopefully.

Sirius Black escaped that summer, bringing Lucius's other business to a standstill. Draco was thirteen now, and he knew his father was a bad man. The tattoo that Draco used to think was neat. Well, Draco knew what it meant now. Lucius' life was not his own. And it wasn't safe to have Sirius Black on the run, especially when he seemed to be running to Dumbledore. Sirius Black, Draco knew, was _not_ a bad man.

Draco couldn't remember ever having a year as brutal as that one. First, he'd been slaughtered…okay, it was like three scratches…by a crazed Hippogriff. Then, while his father (without Draco's council) fought to kill said crazed Hippogriff, Hermione Granger hit him.

Slapped him right across the face in front of Potter, Weasley, Crabbe and Goyle.

Hermione was stunned.

Draco was stunned.

He issued a half-assed command to Crabbe and Goyle ("C'mon") and high-tailed it to the dungeons.

_Who knew Hermione Granger had it in her?_

Somewhere far away from where Draco Malfoy was now, in a library, a small light appeared in the attic of the house. It was faint, and could barely be seen from the outside. But it was there.

Draco went to the Quidditch World Cup that summer. It was a birthday present from his father. His _father_ who had left him alone in the woods with only one word, "Stay", while he paraded around like an idiot, blowing up tents and torturing Muggles. Draco had stayed, until the _festivities_ became a little too close for comfort. He came upon Granger and the boys, hiding out. He'd smiled, surprised that he was happy to see her and then he'd done something stupid. He'd warned her that they were after people like her.

Draco went to his first dance that year. He was turned into a white ferret that year. Cedric Diggory died that year. Draco knew how it happened, not because he was there. But because he knew how any fight would go with Voldemort. It would be over quickly for the losing side. Cedric Diggory hadn't even drawn his wand.

Because Voldemort was a coward, Draco knew. Anyone so terrified of death that they would do anything to avoid it…was a coward. Draco realized that year, his father, the man he'd looked up to for so long…was a coward as well. After the memorial, Draco went to pack. He sat on the foot of his bed, all alone in the cold dormitory and cried. He cried Harry, witness to so much. He cried for Cedric, the first casualty. And he cried for Draco, who had no choice. He was fourteen, and his life was over because Voldemort was back.

Somewhere far away from where Draco was now, in a library, streaks ran through the dirt along the dollhouse. Almost as if someone were crying on it.

Draco didn't go to the library when he got home, he went to bed. He didn't go to the library until the night before he was due back at Hogwarts. He opened the tall, oak doors and let himself in. The dollhouse sat, dirty as ever. It seemed to judge him through its dusty windows. He lifted the small latch and let the house open. There was a light in the attic; Draco didn't remember it having one before. He knew who it reminded him of, and though he couldn't see why, thinking of her made the light shine just a bit brighter. He shut his eyes, and closed up the house again. His finger traced a clean streak in the dust. He wondered where it came from.

Fifth year passed in a haze as well. Without trying, he'd acquired power in the castle with Umbridge. He could do anything he wanted and get away with it. This is exactly what he did. And so it was that after Hermione's ridiculous and completely unbelievable display of tears that Draco was left in charge of Weasley, Ginny, Neville and Luna. Carefully, intent on attracting attention, he loosened his grip on his wand and looked over his shoulder out the window. He didn't know what spell they were hit with, but he knew Ginny was behind it…holding _his_ wand.

His father went to prison and Draco made a good show of acting upset about it. He'd threatened Potter, not unusual considering the mutual loathing between them. But the threat had been forced and if challenged, Draco would have simply walked away.

Somewhere far away from where Draco Malfoy was now, in a library, the dollhouse took a deep breath (for a house) and like a wet dog, shook the dirt off itself. It wasn't as beautiful as when it was first made, the house knew, but that first layer of dirt made all the difference in the world.

Then everything went to Hell.

Draco didn't have time to stop at the library. He didn't even get to go home. As soon as his mother escorted him to a car, Draco was taken to Voldemort. He was branded and given an assignment. "Kill Dumbledore or Die", it was simple enough when said, but actually doing it was going to be a problem.

Draco Malfoy was not a killer.

He knew Potter was in the compartment so he boasted, and bragged and did everything short of shouting "Guess what I'm up to, Potter!" It didn't work. As much as Harry tracked him, and as much as Draco allowed himself to be spotted, Potter was too late. Or too early, depending on where you were standing on the top of that lightning-struck tower. And so Draco ran with Snape, but not before seeing Hermione. They locked eyes and he rushed down the stairs. Relief was plain in her eyes, relief that he was alright…relief that Snape had saved him. But Draco was too good at Occlumency to let this distorted vision be the last she saw of him.

"_I'm sorry_," he told her. Her mouth opened in shock. "_I'm sorry."_

Somewhere far away from where Draco Malfoy was now, in a library, the dollhouse fought the cobwebs that had surrounded it. It twisted away, breaking its own supports as it tugged. The strings crept like venom over its roof and down the chimney. The light burned brightly as ever, trying its best to ward of the consuming dark.

The Ministry declared him innocent when all was said and done. He was ruled a "stupid and insolent child", Draco smile. _If only it had been that simple. _He was released on parole after spending two years in Azkaban Prison for his activity in Voldemort's plan. Potter defeated Voldemort. They could all go on with their lives now. They were picking up the pieces, seeing which ones fit and which ones didn't. Potter is married to Ginny now, they've got two children. Ron proposed to Luna, much to everyone's surprise and Neville ended up with Pansy. It made Draco almost sorry for the boy, considering how much he was going to be bossed around. Draco couldn't remember how it happened but suddenly, after Draco aided in the defeat of Voldemort, Potter, Weasley, Granger and Malfoy ended up friends. Dumbledore would have been happy that there was at least a little more love in the world.

Hermione had gone off traveling. She'd been saying goodbye to everyone, except Draco. He should have expected that. After giving him a quick smile at the Burrow, she rushed to the door, and then froze. She turned suddenly, rushing over to him and planting a chaste kiss on his lips. Then, without losing her composure Apparated away like nothing had happened.

Draco walked up the stairs to the foyer of his old house. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been here, probably before sixth year. He dropped his trunk in the foyer, he wasn't going to unpack. He was here to make sure his childhood home was still standing and then he was moving to an apartment far away from here. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. He remembered them being a lot longer. He pushed open the door to the library; the library itself had seemed to have shrunk. But there it sat. The dollhouse.

It was white again, which made him happy. But the glass of the windows was still a little dim as if they'd seen too much. There were cobwebs of black covering the roof, with a simple spell Draco blasted them away, but the faint outline of them remained. He sat down slowly, unhooking the latch and letting the door swing open with a musty creak. The rooms were clean now, though still darker than they had been. The light in the attic caught his attention, drawing his gaze upward. It was twinkling like a fairy, obviously very excited. Another flash caught his attention.

The curtain had been drawn back a way, a girl stood looking out over the grounds.

"Nice place you have here," he knew she was smirking. "Not on the turn are you, Malfoy? Only girls play with dollhouses."

He stood, shrugging off his traveling cloak, and approached the girl. "This isn't an ordinary dollhouse, Granger."

"What is it then? Family heirloom passed down through generations?"

"It could be," Draco smirked. "Traditions have to start somewhere."

"It's kind of gloomy," she stared at it, suddenly aware of how close he was.

"Life is kind of gloomy," he took her hand.

Hermione looked up, "I think I missed you" then "a little."

"That's convenient," he decided. "Because I missed me too."

Before she could process that, his lips claimed hers once again. He pulled away, searching her face. As if finding what he was looking for, he resumed his newest mission: Hermione Granger.

And so Draco Malfoy grew up with a dollhouse. It wasn't an ordinary dollhouse, as dollhouses go. It didn't sing or dance, but it watched and waited. It waited for the darkness to devour it and watched as the light freed it. For happiness, Draco decided as he hugged Hermione tightly, can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light.


End file.
